Paradox
by liesincrayon
Summary: Arthur/Eames SLASH. "This was real, he could hold onto this." Warnings: Violence, slight Language, slight sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

Notes for the entire story: No Beta, all errors are mine. Spell-checking brought to you by Firefox! Proofread once, written in two days. About five days after watching the movie. I don't own any of this, but had a lot of fun writing it, and by fun I mean oh god my eyes. Not enough Arthur/Eames on the net, well here is my contribution. Enjoy.

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The ring of violins echos through the cavernous entry-lobby. Arthur's shoulders tense, his stomach clenches, music. Is the count-down starting, no, no it cannot be, because this is reality, not a dream. His hand closes around the weighted die in his pocket, familiar weight, familiar reality.

In the distance he can see more of the familiar, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the play of light through huge windows, he can see Eames and Ariadne walking together, he cannot hear them, but he can read them. They are having a conversation about the airline food, Arthur can tell this by the way Eames is using a packet of peanuts to accentuate his points. It would be ridiculous if they were conversing on other items.

Arthur has to look away as sun breaks through clouds, pouring into the hotel lobby and flooding it with dream-like light. He steps away from the wall at the proper time, letting the Forger and Architect carry most of the distance with their momentum. He meets them about three feet from the hotel's restaurant, arms easily wrapping around them both. "Four under Cobb." Arthur says before Ariadne can start into her display of happy reunion and Eames can crush him into a hug.

"Arthur! You look so well! Nothing has changed about you at all!" Ariadne's voice is a welcome reprieve to Arthur, too many ringing sounds of gunfire as of late, not enough pleasantness. Ariadne gives him the hug he expected from Eames, and Eames gives him nothing but a polite smack on the back. It is awkward all of a sudden, and Arthur can feel his collar tightening. Taking a step back he studies them, snaps them into his photographic memory, and notes that Eames' sleeve is worn at the edges, and Ariadne has gotten a haircut that makes her look like a beautiful imp. Despite the beauty, Arthur is drawn again to the worn expression of the Forger, the tattered details.

"Sit, sit, you must have had a long flight." Arthur pulls out a chair for Ariadne, and then quickly for Eames. "Now Darling, you know how I feel about your chivalry." Eames teases, but there is a spark in his eyes Arthur has come to recognize. Ariadne laughs at their teasing, as she often does.

Sliding into his own chair, Arthur waits till drinks and food have been ordered before he begins. "I know you are both expecting me to have information pertaining to why we have been assembled here again, but I have little to offer." He wishes he did, with the way Ariadne is looking so bitter under those layers of calm. "I received an email yesterday with flight information but little else." Arthur waits, Ariadne offers the same information, but Eames hesitates, which is normal for Eames, who never looks as if he's paying attention anyway.

"Yes, we're not the only ones either, I was making a call upon Yusuf and he received a letter as well. He refused to respond, which now that I'm here, m'thinking I should have done." Arthur does not need to hear the stress in Eames' voice, the man is all sharp lines. "Not to be an alarmist, but I do not believe Cobb is the one responsible for this meeting. Last I spoke with him, he was planning an extended vacation with his family to the sea-side, he had no intentions of being called away." After the separation Dom had been forced to live through, Arthur had expected the hiatus to last several years at least, not a mere three months.

"Then why the hell are you here?" Eames' eyes are glinting sharp enough to draw Ariadne's attention. He calms only moderately when she rests her hand on his arm and leans into him. Arthur knows they have not been together since that job, but there is something there that hadn't been the first go-round. "Because I knew you would both be here." Arthur does not elaborate, but some of the stress between them dissipates. "I doubt it is safe to continue this line of conversation here, as I am sure we are being monitored." Their food had yet to arrive, which would raise enough confusion he guessed to get them away.

Leaving did not seem to be a problem, as much as getting out the back door was, Arthur was used to dreams and twisting physics, over the past few months he'd been working with people whom were not always as careful as Dom. Guns came to be apart of the waking world as much as the dream. He hadn't come here with the mind to fight though, just to meet up, despite the subterfuge whoever had initiated this had resorted to, violence did not seem to be their goal.

Which is probably what threw him so hard when the shot rang out. He hadn't been expecting violence, had walked right into it, which was often the case as Cobb's point-man, but this wasn't a dream. Ariadne is already ducking, and god-bless the girl, he never should have let Cobb drag her into this. He had never had the best morals though, of course life-or-death situations changed that.

They had gotten to the back door of the restaurant, swept their way past wait-staff, Eames had started teasing Ariadne about her hair. He'd paused to comment, to draw a finger across her cheek when he'd heard it. Pain, sharp and stabbing. No matter how many times, it still happens, the automatic urge to clutch what hurts. He's tried to wean himself from it, but too many self-inflicted wounds, no matter where they occur, tend to harsh your calm.

Eames is shoving between him and the door, pushing him back into a nook between the wall and a fire-alarm box. Words are frantic and mumbled, time seems to slow down, deep breath. He has to work through this, because there is no waking up from this. Another deep breath, things speed back up, Eames is pulling a hand-gun from the back of his belt. Arthur still feels slow but his moves are quick. He grabs the gun from Eames, uses it to shatter the fire-alarm box. He pulls the alarm, takes another deep breath, and holds the gun at a downward angle, hiding it from the quickly rushing waiters and chefs that now pour out of the door past them.

Arthur gives orders in his ever-level tone, Ariadne follows them, moving on the other side of Arthur with the same quick speed of the evacuating mass. Eames follows them too, but there is anger there Arthur cannot focus on now. The weight of the gun in his hands brings him back to reality, and he struggles to map it as he would his dice, forcing focus.

The car almost hitting them is something new, he gets three shots off before the gun runs out, he catalogs that into his mind, so he can berate Eames later. These attackers do not use guns though, they overpower Ariadne easily, throw her into the car. They cannot leave her alone with them, they cannot fight them off without backup. Another shot impacts glass, Arthur drops the gun and moves on his own volition. Eames doesn't come readily, when they shove the Brit into the car his head falls to Arthur's lap a dart sticking out of his neck.


	2. Chapter 2

It did not take a genius to figure out that the persons whom shot Arthur were not the persons whom were currently holding them hostage. For one they had displayed great inclinations to keep Arthur alive, to which Arthur was glad. Stitched up and laying on his side in a warehouse resembling ones they had used as headquarters over and over again, he is given the luxury of watching Eames come out of his chemical cocktail.

Ariadne is sleeping lightly behind him, he can feel the steady press of her breath at the back of his neck. He'd bled, an awful lot, it was all over her, all over Eames as well, a smear of it against his neck where Arthur had plucked the dart free. They'd tried to get Eames onto a more comfortable item, but Arthur's strength had waned. That had been hours ago, the only light they have filters in through tiny windows an imp couldn't fit through. Eames sits up slowly, not making a sound, Arthur watches the Brit get his bearings, shake the last of the drugs from his bleary world.

He reaches his hand out, drawing Eames' attention, beckoning him over. Eames crawls slowly, not bothering to stand, their faces level. "Ariadne is sleeping, I think we should let her rest." Arthur whispers, he already knows Eames is aware of this fact, and agrees, or else the Forger would not have come so close to him. "How are you feeling?" Eames presses a hand to Arthur's forehead, it is an action so caring, so deeply ingrained, that Arthur is momentarily thrown. "No fever at least, how bad is it?" Eames is already moving Ariadne's coat to the side, examining the bandage. "I was not expecting to be shot so early into a job." Arthur's voice is level as usual, it takes training to hear the amusement beneath it.

"You're honestly thinking on going along with this aren't you? This is why Cobb has t'pay me extra each time, because everyone he surrounds himself with is loony." Eames' voice is sharp, but his hands are gentle, drawing the coat back up, brushing back Arthur's hair which is now a mess. "This would include yourself." Arthur replies levelly, the response he gets is swift.

Eames' lips are rough against his own, they take and claim in a familiar way. Arthur closes his eyes and lets the feeling wash over him, focuses on the tease of slick tongue against his lips instead of the deep ache of a bullet that rested too close to fatality. Eames is breathless when he pulls back, but Arthur is suddenly zen. Ariadne's breath is no longer even against the back of his neck, she is awake, but makes no move to alert them to her presence.

"I don't see you for months, and then you go and get yourself shot love, that's a rather desperate display for attention, couldn't you have just sent me a card?" Eames' voice is rough, but it feels soft against his lips. "I will endeavor to remember that next time." Arthur is silenced again by a kiss, less desperate and more longing in it's tempo.

"Missed you Arthur. Always do you know, even though you're always getting me into trouble." Eames' voice has lost the rough edge, to which Arthur is grateful. "Help me up." Arthur says, pulling Eames away from whatever truth they were not yet prepared to face. The action gives Ariadne enough pause to "wake" making a soft yawn that she stifles into her hand. Eames moves, fetching a chair so that they were not all crammed onto the bed. "So while I was napping, anything interesting happen?" Arthur lets Ariadne answer Eames. Taking the time to delve a hand into his coat pocket, actions safe in the darkness, his die still there, it's weight more a comfort than even Eames' accent.

"The people holding us now seem to be a small religious sect of some sort, and they seem to be uniformly Caucasian. From what I could hear, they were not expecting to have their meeting with us interrupted." Ariadne slips an arm around him gently. He doesn't notice till then, how his breathing has slipped into an unsteady pace. Eames is watching him, zoning as usual, pulling in all the information. "The ones that grabbed us in the car seem to be their front workers, um, what would you call them?" Ariadne falters, giving cause for Arthur to smile slightly.

"Never-mind that, what do they want with us?" Eames cuts in, his attention now snapping around the room, Arthur has already checked though, there is no way out other than through the windows or the door. The door is locked, and the windows of course are too small.

"What I could gather while they were attending to my wound, they have a person with whom they need information extracted. Their religion prevents them from using methods of torture?" Arthur stands slowly, brushing away Ariadne's grasping hands, finding his equilibrium slowly. Pulling his coat tighter around himself he walked slowly to the door. "I believe that they require the services of an extractor, quietly, and that upon not being able to reach Cobb, the best in the business, they took his identity to entrap us." Eames is at his side, the man is an imposing double, Arthur would hate to be on the opposite side in a battle with him.

"How does this end up with you getting yourself shot?" Eames asks, Ariadne quick-stepping her way to his other side. Rapping knuckles on the door, Arthur tries to bring his clothing into a semblance of order. "There would seem to be someone whom does not want this information extracted." It is simple enough an answer to earn him a glare from Eames, but then the door opens and they are greeted with men armed with dart guns. There is no use in running, Arthur is trained in this, he maps the entire room, the exit points, the strategic hiding places. He could disarm these men, but the ones further into the hall, down in a central room working with PASIV devices, mixing chemicals would be given too much reaction time.

He also has no way of knowing the true layout of the building, or the number of guards placed around it. Someone would get hurt, and if numbers are correct, it would be Ariadne, and that is unforgivable. "No need for that gentleman, we are amiable enough to listen to your proposal, I am sure there shall be one?" Arthur raises his hands in the universal gesture of peace, he was in charge here now and he'd be damned if he'd allow anyone under his order to be hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

They are shown to a side-room, with a set-up much less spartan than the one they had been dumped in prior. Upholstered chairs that Arthur was careful not to rip his stitches sitting on. Ariadne sits in the one closest to him, clutching to his chair arm, sisterly with an edge of something else. Eames chooses to stand, and does so behind Arthur's chair, in what was probably an imposing way, if Arthur could turn to look at him without crying out in pain. He knows the measured stature of his motions just looks to be all that cooler and more collected, but he feels weak and all too exposed regardless.

They are soon joined by an elderly man, whose well-pressed clothing and icy demeanor sets Arthur on edge. Their captors are subservient to this man, not by their words, but by their actions. Heads bow, eyes refuse to meet his, people bustle around, setting tea down on a table beside them. Chairs scrape as they are pulled out, a blind is pulled down before they are left alone with the head-honcho. When the man turns his gaze to Arthur, the point-man makes sure he knows who is in charge here now.

"I apologize for the way I was forced to trick you, and how you suffered because of it. Any price you name I will match to compensate for this wound to our working relationship." Skilled hands move to pour tea, Arthur studies and lets Eames vent his frustration, already knowing the tirade to come.

"Bloody hell, working relationship? Look I don't give a fuck who you are, or how much you've got in the bank. We're out of here if you're done holding guns on us." Eames hand moves to Arthur's shoulder, gripping tight, enough control not to bruise, but Arthur knows it's barely there. Mask of anger, this isn't the first time he's seen it, probably will not be the last, he knows when he needs him to Eames will switch tacks.

"Please Mr. Eames, listen at least to my proposition?" Their captor is speaking to Eames, but his gaze is on Arthur still. Arthur nods, and Eames switches masks behind him, he can feel it in the gentle curl of the Forger's fingers into his coat lapel. Ariadne tightens her hold on his coat sleeve, showing her own distaste for this turn of events. "We will listen, but if we do not agree to take this job, do we have your word we will be released?" Arthur's words are crisp and businesslike, he hears them echo in his head, making the pain that much more unbearable.

"Of course, of course. I would not hold you here against your will." Arthur would laugh at the blatant lie, save he can hear the catch of truth in the statement. The capture, the subterfuge had been meant with the value they had been given, Arthur can tell a lie, this one is not meant on purpose. "Then we will listen." Arthur accepts the cup of tea he is offered, breathes in the heat, and feels the burn of it in his stomach. He does not drink it, merely holds it close, he doesn't need to get sick in the middle of business negotiations.

"The men you were attacked by are those of an opposing organization, they are holding my daughter hostage. We have one of their members ourselves and would like you to extract the information on where they are holding my daughter." Arthur does not need Eames to tell him the man is lying, but the Forger's fingers gripping his shoulder tight tell him he is not the only one to have caught the lie. If Eames hadn't caught it, Arthur would have been concerned more over that fact than for his own wound. To prevent Eames from voicing his doubts, Arthur gently places the tea cup back on the table, iron-control on the pain coursing through him. "If you intend to lie to us as to your intents, we cannot broker a deal with you at this point." The ultimatum grabs the other man's attention.

"You are correct, she is not my daughter, she is none-the-less the heir of this organization. We are a business for all purposes, and information pertaining to our enemy will be prepared and made available to you, but as to my own organization I can offer you nothing." Arthur has most everything he needs, near religious fanaticism, a business-like front. This was a government of some type, and they were playing on a global scale now, it didn't matter if they took the job or didn't, they were in trouble just being here, at least this was a gamble he could hedge a bit. With Ariadne and Eames on his side, they might get paid, and it was starting to intrigue him as to the job itself. "I will not accept unless I have full cooperation by your staff. Also you must accept the price my co-workers put on their services." Arthur zones out a bit as Eames takes over financial bargaining. Ariadne's voice is a pleasant hum in his ear for the next few minutes, he needed pain-killers, a few hours of sleep, he likely would get neither. Kidnapping was sensitive, and if they had not killed the hostage yet, it was likely they wanted her alive for some reason.

Too many questions, and he knew he would receive answers to almost none of them. This was a horrible idea, especially to drag Ariadne along for the ride, but Arthur was a gambling man, and the lure of excitement was too much. He hadn't hung around Cobb merely from loyalty, Cobb had been a dangerous ally when he'd met him. Arthur had always had that taste for danger. "My agents will get you whatever you need." Their client stands, bows stiffly, calling in a secretary, complete with glasses and a day-planner. Eames leans down, whispers against Arthur's ear, bringing him back to earth. "I told them you'd be working for my pay-rate as well, are you doing alright Arthur? I'd hate to think you let us risk our lives due to blood loss." Eames' breath is blessedly warm against his ear and it works more than his words for bringing Arthur back down. "Just a little off-balance." Arthur's attention snaps to their new secretary. "I need a computer loaded with as much information pertaining to this organization you are working against as possible. I want you to show Mr. Eames to the holding cell you are keeping the hostage in, I want him briefed on as much information you have on this man's social life as possible. Also, we had bags and items on us, return them, we need to be able to make calls and such." With the haste in which his commands are carried out, Arthur is now assured in his belief that they are no longer hostages. Keeping everyone alive would probably be a much trickier endeavor.

"Are you alright Arthur?" Ariadne leans down when the secretary leaves with Eames in tow, her face looks pained, it reminds Arthur of his own dilemma. "I'll be alright, just not going to be jumping around much, at least not out here." In the dreamscape he'd be fine, able to shut down the external pain, dwell on the mental. Until then he'd be struggling, he could rest, but let down his guard? Couldn't hazard that loss. He should have told them to shove it, Cobb would have, but Arthur has been making risky decisions too long to stop now, it's why he liked focusing on details instead of bigger plans, less chance of them blowing up because he did something less than safe. "If you aren't comfortable with this job Ariadne, I'll have them get you home safe." Arthur looks up, studies her, watches the curve of her lips, he knows she wouldn't miss it, is as addicted to the game as he is. They are kindred souls in that way, and maybe, if things were different, that kiss so long ago could have been something else. It isn't though, and he doesn't really mind.

"Then get to work, design us something fit for a kidnapper, take into consideration whatever Eames drags up about the man, you have your sketchbook and utensils in your bag no doubt?" Arthur has them bring him a desk, and sets to work tearing through the files they provide him with, focusing on the details, he needed something concrete to give his team. This was work, he could focus on this, even though they would not have the luxury of much planning, this would have to be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

"This is ridiculous, we should put our tails between our legs and get as far from this mess as possible." It's the fifth time Eames has started in on this same line of conversation. Arthur mumbles to show he is paying attention, even though he is not, they've set him up with some opiate tea, that while numbing the pain, is also keeping him coherent enough to focus on his files. He is in his zen-state, and Eames is not cutting his way in now, not with the same dull line of conversation. "Are you even listening pet, this is bloody ridiculous!" the accent is becoming more pronounced, it draws Arthur's attention from the files before him. "I'm listening, you are repeating yourself." This draws a snort of laughter from Ariadne, whom is other-wise fully focused on her sketchpad.

Eames paces a few feet before them, he does it in a way that forces Arthur to look up. The worry in each harsh line is clear, Eames is all sharp edges a wild animal set in a cage. He had studied their new mark, captured and heavily sedated, Arthur had not been there but he'd heard Eames' angry diatribe after. Information gleaned from drugged up captives was no good, Arthur gives him that much, but it was what they had to go on. As well as the personal affects found on the man. Photographs could go far, but could also be faked. "If you would sit and be still, I could find us more to go on." Arthur is far from loosing his patience, working with Eames forced one to have an abundance of it.

Eames slides into the chair beside him, still on edge, but letting Arthur focus. There isn't much there to focus on though, after a few hours of pouring through records, he had little more than they'd taken the job knowing. They were going up against the business front of a government centered project, some cloak and dagger outfit in South Africa. There were too many power-struggles and government uprisings in that part of the world for anyone to stay truly informed on the movers and shakers at any given moment.

"Ariadne, would you go see if they've got any tea without opiates in it?" Eames waits a few minutes before breaking the silence this time. Ariadne accepts, even though she is deep in creation, photographs and notes strewn around her. When she shuts the door behind her Arthur is prepared for the yelling, but it never comes. Turning his attention from the computer, he is surprised by the emotion that is impossible to deny. Eames is worried, more than his words and actions could display. "You need a doctor Arthur." Eames' voice is low, further compounding the worry. Arthur isn't sure when this thing between them started changing. He should have noticed, he notices everything else.

It's a testament to Eames' art, that they are this far down, before Arthur notices at all. To pretend that there was nothing would be denial, and so Arthur takes it in stride. "I'll be well enough till we get out of here." He breaks the cool facade to smile, but knows it's a weak thing. When Eames leans in, to press lips against Arthur's it is an experience unlike all the ones before it. Hanging on the rafters of barely felt pain, it's surreal, and he can almost swear he tastes love, a foreign, forbidden, concept. When Eames pulls away, Arthur moves forward, resting his cheek against the other man's own. "You're alright darling?" Eames' voice is rough, and Arthur revels in it for a moment. Eames uses pet-names for everyone, and really Arthur had thought it teasing till now.

"Just need a bit of quiet." Arthur whispers, and welcomes the soft press of Eames' fingers through his hair. "When we get out of this mess I'll give you all the quiet you need." Arthur wonders if Eames is aware he will be held to his promise. He is given a few blessed moments of silence, Eames holding him, gently working fingers through his hair which needs badly to be styled. He would be embarrassed at the disheveled state of his appearance if not for the fact that he has seen Ariadne and Eames in worse condition.

When Ariadne returns with tea and cardboard, Eames delves into helping the architect create a model of her design. Watching them banter about, working on the floor, Arthur is comforted in the knowledge that Eames was through fighting him on that particular subject. With a sinking feeling Arthur is afraid perhaps this is one time he should have let Eames win.

Coming up with a broad plan is hard for him, as it always is, too quick to focus on the details, the fruition of the broader spectrum. That is why Cobb is so important to Arthur, he's the detail man here, not the master-planner. But of course Cobb has a family to take care of, and the one he left behind was for Arthur to lead now it seemed. Of course Ariadne would come, any chance to see them again, she was lost in this world. Eames would come and now Arthur knew why it was Eames would come, despite knowing it was a trap, despite knowing the dangers. Because Arthur was there, and so Arthur owed it to them to focus, and plan, and get them out of this.

Sighing, he takes a deep sip of the spiked tea, sets himself back to work, coming up with a broader plan, as on the floor a facsimile of their dreamscape is being brought to existence by Ariadne's talented hands.

They work together for what seems like hours, there is no easy way to tell time here. Arthur listens as Eames takes on one persona after another, builds them a working network of personalities based on telephone conversations that are sometimes too quickly aborted. Eames knows more languages than a linguist professor, and Arthur can only follow along half the time, picking out words. Eames is able to twist his voice like an expert, which Arthur knows him to be. One minute he is an elderly man, trying to find contact information, the next a young woman with a throaty purr, despite the vocal tricks, it is only in the dreamscape that Eames can twist his true appearance.

The vocal is enough in this instance, Arthur listens as a psychological profile is built upon their mark, groans a little inwardly when they receive confirmation that the man is high enough in this scheme to have been given training against extractors. Of course they have dealt with this, and as a team before, the man probably has not been given training to the extent of Ariadne's first mark for instance.

They are given full reign of the facility, but Arthur has not moved from his chair since setting himself into it, merely scribbles his notes and builds a plan, cross-referencing and directing Ariadne. His own dreamscape was a beautiful if delicate Escher-esque mesh of office buildings, but he was no architect. Not like Ariadne, he lacked the true art, merely had an understanding of the concepts. Once he'd given her direction she had taken true flight, and did so now. Moving and sculpting with paper what their dreamscape would become. He tries not to study too closely till the finished concept, too many drafts to muddle it up later. His photographic memory sometimes burdened him with too many different variations, time a concept you find hard to grasp in the dream.

He studies internal infrastructure, gives Eames telephone numbers, takes down names, orchestrates each tiny detail till it adds up. They are past the grand scheme now, and into the details, and this is what Arthur does, takes charge, gets things to run smooth. He is in his element, blinders on against most everything else, including the pain. They are working on a deadline now, one he can feel ticking down as he finds out more and more. Two warring government factions, locked in a civil-war and it's obvious they've just chosen a side. Of course it was chosen for them before they'd even known about the war at all, Arthur was not likely to side with those who shoot before knowing the whole story. Especially when he is the target.

It is morning when Ariadne is finished with the model, if the clock on the computer they provided him with is correct. Each curve is exactly to scale, and crafted with the precision of one who knows details matter. Arthur memorizes the scale model, takes account of each staircase, balcony, hallway. It is a small enough playground, but too much space would give a feeling of freedom they cannot afford their mark. "I know you have every intention to accompany us into the dream, but I would rather you stay awake Ariadne." Arthur has prepared his argument well, and braces himself for her side of the debate.

She does not disappoint. "Oh no, don't think you can leave me out now, you've been shot Arthur! That's sure to affect the dream, and Eames cant host it, he has to focus on interaction and that leaves me to host." She is passionate, if she was not, her art would be useless to them. "It is something we will have to risk, you have to stay awake to make sure nothing goes wrong out here." Arthur's voice is level and cool, he's been told often enough by a wide variety of people that it is infuriating. Ariadne looks infuriated enough at the moment at least. "Please, we need you out here. You are the only person I trust in this other than Eames, I do not plan to go under without someone I know on the outside." The words hold enough inflection to appease her.

He does not expect the kiss, soft from chap-stick. It lingers even less than the first, but is pleasant and hopeful. "For luck." Ariadne grins, teasing, grabbing Eames and doing the same. Eames laughs, but Arthur can hear the tension there from confusion.


	5. Chapter 5

"Then she tells me she wants to get married can you believe it?" Eames is carrying on a conversation with their mark, they have been having it for quite some time now, even though they have only just started talking. Arthur stretches out a bit, hidden on the other-side of a trick mirror. The pain is gone but he knows if he focuses too hard, it will be back, so he runs with it. They have only till their mark catches on to do this, they cannot afford to fuck it up too many times. "Shut up Eric, the kid isn't supposed to know who we are." There is guilt in the man's voice, they'd counted on that, it will help.

The "girl" sits in the center of the room, tied and blindfolded, probably the way their mark last saw her. "How long are we supposed to watch her, this place is giving me the creeps Eric." Arthur stiffens, wondering if the two men were on first name basis, but the girl, their first line of defense in knowing when their mark was turning on them, shows no sign of focusing on anything other than her blind little world.

"We're moving her soon." Eric, their target states, brushing his face in a nervous gesture. He knows more about this than he is supposed to, which broods well for them at least. Aaron, Eames' latest acquisition leans against the wall, the limited information they had about him showed a cocksure gun-for-hire type. Eric too was not apart of the organization proper, it seemed that the core-kidnappers had been hired rag-tag. Eames was treading on sensitive ground here though, having no way of knowing the true relationship between the two men, what constituted for normal between them.

"Oh, where are we moving her to? Or are we not supposed to know?" Aaron asks, feigning interest, Arthur can see the gleam of mischief in eyes that aren't Eames'. This was dangerous territory, which is all the better that Ariadne was outside, one of them was sure to get shot. "You know you shouldn't be asking that, these people are fucking crazy." Eric bites out angrily, voice lowered, Arthur can see the tension rising in the air. The mask of Aaron raises his hands, supplicating to the ire of the other man, letting out a low whistle. "Yeah, we're cool." All the background on Aaron has him coming from the States, but Arthur cannot hold in the groan at the regional dialect, it tended to make or break the illusion.

Eric lets out a nervous laugh. "Sorry mate, just on edge. How is she, she hasn't moved since we put her in the chair." There is definite guilt there, and a little bit of protectiveness, something they were not expecting and a fortunate turn of events. Aaron gently pats the girl's shoulder, bringing her attention to them. "You okay?" He uses the same level of concern that Eric is displaying, carefully walking the edge. "Are they going to kill me?" She asks, and Arthur is assured that they are on the right tack.

Eric's subconscious turns against him, turning into a guilt complex they had not planned for, the girl's voice wavers with fear. "I don't want to die." She whimpers, and Arthur takes this as his cue to turn up the heat, stepping into the hall and walking the short distance to the room. Opening it he is all business, and catches Eric off-guard. "We're moving her, get her ready for transport, make sure that blindfold is tight." His words bring more guards, his backup, Eric filling the dream with his own fantasy of what should be happening. Aaron reaches out to check the blindfold, but Eric moves first, making the motions of tightening.

Arthur wonders if Eames notices how Eric feigned tightening the blindfold. He closes the door once more, and loiters outside with the guards, all dressed similarly to himself, giving the men time to untie the girl from her chair. Arthur learned in childhood that fiddling drew attention, that a nervous person gives off unconscious signs that draw the gaze of others. He trained that out, moving from school to school, home to home, it was easier to go unnoticed than to be that perpetual new kid.

None of them raise their gaze to him, he blends into their rank which is good, save their attention seems to be shifting to the door. One of them goes to open it moving swiftly, and Arthur stifles surprise when it slams open, Eric using the momentum to knock the guard down, before icily shooting the projection in the head. Another guard moves to subdue, and Arthur uses the man's momentum against him, grabbing him, swinging him around, using the man as a shield against the bullet Eric had planned for him. Arthur takes stock of the situation, calculates the place of each person, a limited equation at best, there are too many blind spots here.

He has one priority though, to see what is behind Eric, the man in front of him is dead-weight now, literally, he drops him, uses another projection as shield and shifts sides, he has half a second to look in, sees Eames, as Aaron, with a protective arm around the girl. Which means they are still doing well, at least for now. "Take a hostage or we'll never get out!" Eames gives Arthur an in, which he plans to take. Another dead weight, Eric has two choices, the final guard projection, a lackey, or Arthur, dropping the man, Arthur holds his hands up, holds his breath. Eric doesn't react as quickly to Eames' suggestion as Arthur would want.

The shot is painful, it goes through his shoulder, buries itself into the wall Ariadne designed. Arthur takes a deep breath, breathes through the pain, waits for the second shot, better-aimed. It comes, but downs the final projection instead, Eames' standing at Eric's side, forcefully lowering the man's hand with his own gun. "We need a hostage, pull yourself together, check him for weapons." Aaron barks out vicious, but the glint in his eyes is all apology, it's all Eames.

Arthur turns about as ordered, guns fished out of clothing, he even gives up the one strapped to his ankle, he can play the part as ordered. "How do we get out of here?" Eric is waving the gun at him again oblivious to the tense stature of the man behind him. Arthur does not need to focus on details to see that Eames is unhappy with this turn of events, it is written all over the mask. Nodding he holds his hands up, suppressing the cringe of pain as it jars his shoulder. At least it wasn't the kneecap this time, Mal always hit the kneecaps, even better, at least it wasn't Mal. Cobb's shade had always had a jealous streak concerning Arthur, which was saying something about Cobb's emotions toward him he had never bothered to look into.

"If you accidentally shoot him, I'll kick your ass Eric, I don't give a flying fuck if he looks at you wrong, I don't know where we are and neither do you." Aaron's voice is dripping venom, it pushes Eric into his place. Arthur wonders what Eames had said to learn the power-play between them, but now isn't the time. Recalling the construct of the dream, he knows he will have to change the architecture for travel. He wishes he could tell Eames, this hadn't been in the plan, but improvisation was something Arthur was good at, at least.

Moving down the hallway, Arthur is already changing the layout of the corridor outside, building upon streets, creating bridges, it is drawing the ire of countless projections, dragging Eric's whole subconscious down on him, this is something he is used to at least. "They won't let you get away if you try to take me out by force. Let me help you, please." Arthur tries to put the right inflection into his tone, tries to twist it into a plead, he is not as skilled in subterfuge as Eames. "Why should we trust you?" Aaron, playing his opposite, forcing Eric to take the role of bystander instead of interrogator.

"I did not know what they had planned for her, if I had known I never would have put her in this situation. I had planned to defect upon transit and take her to safety, it's why I was armed, I... I have a daughter... I wouldn't want to have this happen to her." Arthur feigns parental concern. "I have a back way out, with a van. Please." His front is covered with blood, he needs to staunch the flow soon, but he cannot risk loosing the benefit his hands bring to the act he is presenting. Eames nods, stepping up beside Eric, gently bringing the girl with him, now a complacent actor in their little drama. "Fine, but the second something funny goes down, you shoot him in the head Eric." A clean shot Arthur hopes, a head-wound could leave you in the dreamscape for hours before death pushed you back to the waking world. It was not an agony Arthur wanted to experience a second time.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur is shoved into the back of the van, hands bound, the subconscious representation of Eric's kidnap victim is tending to his wound with gentle touches. Eames is driving swiftly through rain-swept streets, they are navigating a familiar scene, one Ariadne had designed for a different job entirely. Soon they will hit the bridge again, Arthur has created an infinite loop, they just have to stay a few steps ahead of Eric's mental projections. "What is your name?" Eric asks something of the projection she cannot answer, threatening the tentative balance. "Her name is Sylvia." Arthur answers for her, voice gentle and concerned, she offers him a soft smile.

Arthur smiles in return, preying upon Eric's softer side, putting himself further onto the playing field. Physically he was at a disadvantage, but emotions he could still manipulate. "What is your name?" Sylvia asks him, her voice heavily accented, showing she was indeed a native of South Africa. "Archibald. Most people call me Arch when they get to know me." Arthur lets out a hiss at the proper time, pain filtering through, Eric throws him a concerned look, a mirror to the concern displayed by his construct of Sylvia. "I'm alright." He assures Sylvia, Eric turns back to Eames, in time to see a car coming straight at them.

Eames swerves, his response time off the charts as usual, Arthur braces himself, but doesn't plan for Sylvia's weight to slam into him with the force of a turn. His vision goes white, bursts of color and sound as his shoulder joint crushes together, bone-shards grinding. He should probably cry out, Arch would cry out, but Arthur braces his feet against the seat before him instead. Sylvia clings to him as Eames wrenches the emergency break, forcing them into a stop, before snapping the van back into drive, slamming it into the car that had slid past them into a swerve. Arthur holds his breath, Sylvia's imaginary arm feels more than real, clutching his shoulder with fear. She cannot be more than seventeen, she is younger than even Ariadne.

The car of their pursuers slides off the bridge, teetering precariously, Arthur watches, hands clutched tight together, he hadn't seen it the first time through, but this is enough. Eames pulls the break again, forces a spin back away from the edge, using momentum to pull them back around. Aaron is now a professional driver, whether he is in real life or not, is something they will never know. "Do you know where they were planning to transport her? I was not given that information." Arthur asks, looking pale and terrified as Archibald. Just middle-management, as lost in this world as Sylvia is, he probably didn't even know how to use a gun. Arthur can read the sympathy in Eric's eyes, he knows it's coming, they don't even need to find a safe, the man wants to give up his employers, they just had to ask the right way.

"We need to stay as far the fuck away from there as possible." Aaron grinds out, Arthur sees a flash of Eames, looking at him through the rear-view mirror, eyes sharp and mischievous as usual. Eric gives the address, startled as Eames pulls the emergency break again, the gun wrenched from his hands in the shock of such a quick stop. Eames is livid, holding the gun against Eric's head, the mask of Aaron is gone. "Look mate, a word from the wise, when you're looking to take a hostage, you don't bloody well shoot them, it's counter-productive." The shot is deafening in the small van, Sylvia ceases to exist, leaving them alone with a corpse. "Ariadne will initiate the kick soon. Are you alright?" Eames crawls into the back seat after unbuckling, sliding into the space Sylvia had occupied. "Want the quick out?"

Arthur can tell he is pale, pain in the dreamscape is the same as outside, unless you go further down the rabbit hole, it's still there, compounding with the pain he is feeling in reality, it's excruciating. He reaches out for the gun Eames holds, his bound hands making it hard to maneuver. "Ah, darling, I didn't mean for you to do it yourself." Eames leans in, breath hot against Arthur's ear. "Close your eyes, it wont hurt a bit." Arthur obeys, holding his breath, the muzzle of the gun is hot against his temple from being discharged moments before almost burning. Eames' lips are rough when they press against his own and Arthur parts his lips to suck in the Forger's exhaled breath.

When he opens his eyes again, Ariadne is looking down at him, worried, his breathing is labored for a few more seconds. He reigns in his vitals, forcing heart-rate to moderate, pushing down the underlying panic over the fact that he was going to have to have a very deep conversation with Eames in the future over their relationship. Sitting up fully, Arthur glances to Eric, restrained and still under the heavy influence of drugs. The relief in his gaze is clear, as if he has been absolved of some sin.

Sliding his legs off the lounger, he is in the perfect position to watch Eames come back to coherency. There is a spark of something dark in Eames' eyes, that Arthur is afraid has found a match in his own. Eames gives out the address, slides off his own table, they've pulled off a heist as it were, there is celebration to be done. They aren't expecting their captors to turn on them again. Arthur's wound has him moving slow, he doesn't react fast enough when they dart Eames, Ariadne is grabbed next, a rag put over her mouth. Arthur is helpless to defend his team as the needle is shoved into his arm.

He doesn't dream, the least they could do was let him dream. He comes up from black to the familiar dark room with it's tiny windows and singular door. Ariadne is sitting against the wall, sketching by the dim light that filters through from outside. He can feel Eames behind him, an arm wrapped around him, the Forger's hand splayed against the bandage under Arthur's torn shirt. "If I apologized now it would feel contrived." Arthur speaks gently, is rewarded by Eames' tightening his grip, careful of the wound. "They are still going to pay us." Ariadne's voice is a welcome infusion of joy. "You missed a lot sleepy-head." She teases, leaving her sketchbook by the wall to occupy the chair beside the bed.

"What happened?" Arthur shifts subtly, resting back against Eames, the warmth comforting him. "They have reason to believe an Extraction unit has been to work on their kidnap victim, they wanted us to stick around and their version of a polite invitation involved drugging and holding us hostage." Ariadne brushes cool fingertips against his cheek, and he doesn't need the stark temperature difference to know he is running a fever. The world around him is more of a delirious mess than the dreamscape usually is. Eames is still silent behind him, and Arthur doesn't need to be able to read thoughts to know the Forger is livid.

"Not enough information." Arthur mumbles to himself, struggling to sit up, Eames helping him with a gentle touch. Ariadne kneels, busies herself checking the bandage, her eyes have questions, it's obvious Eames hasn't told her what happened in the dreamscape. "So love, what are your plans as to our escape?" Eames finally speaks, a distinct lack of anger in his tone. "I thought perhaps we would see what our captors have planned." It's the only thing they can do for now. Slipping his hand into his coat pocket, he fingers his die quietly, assuring himself of reality, sense all other venues had been taken from him with repetition of the use of the PASIV device.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur is expecting the attack this time, and he lives up to his title of point-man, flooring the armed man before he can jab him with a needle. Eames is behind the door, uses it to slam into the next man. Ariadne shows plucky courage and crashes their singular chair down upon the man's head. Arthur picks up the gun, head buzzing with the pain of the movement, reminding him physics aren't quite as easy to fudge at the moment. Aiming it down, he gives the three men outside in the corridor no excuse to shoot. "I think it's time we re-negotiate our business arrangement." Arthur has no control here, but the three men, cut down from five, in the corridor do not realize that yet.

"Take us to the sitting room." Arthur had been there long enough, had been given time to map it, it was more neutral ground, would give them a little better footing against their captors. Once safely in the room, Arthur slides to sit in the chair facing the door, excusing the three guards, he gives their opposition time to regroup. Eames leans against the wall near the door, listening, and Ariadne moves to stand behind his chair, in what he assumes is an attempt to look imposing. Arthur weighs the gun in his hand, checks the chamber, lets the mechanism slide beneath his hands. It has full rounds, and he clicks the safety off, it was time for some hard-negotiation.

The man in charge returns, looking pale and truthful, it's obvious he was not expecting the trio to start fighting back now, which is good, any ground Arthur could get above them would be useful. "I apologize, I did not expect them to detain you in such a hostile manner." A lie, but one Arthur lets him get away with, he has come without guards, a sign of peace at least. "Do... do you have experience in retrieving a person from limbo?" The man's words catch, fear and worry inherent. Arthur can read between the lines and feels his stomach drop out, they were too late, it didn't matter the stakes, he couldn't have rushed faster if he'd tried, but they'd lost.

"I do. They don't." Arthur's words have an edge of finality to them, Eames growls from his safe spot against the wall. "You're not going in there alone Arthur." But Arthur has already decided, and Eames is not the one who calls the shots here. "I have experience." Ariadne tries to push her way into the conversation, comes around the chair to make her presence clear. "You know I have experience, you can't go in alone, Eames is right!" Her fear for him is endearing, Arthur hasn't had many people care for him. It was what made Cobb's sudden displacement in his life sting all the more. It would be a lie to state he hadn't hoped just a little that the job offer had been from Dom, even though he'd known otherwise, hope was a fickle thing.

Ariadne's singular trip into that personal hell wasn't enough, and if he'd been involved in the original trip's conception, she wouldn't have gone then either. Eames he knew had experience, you couldn't work in the business as long as the Forger had and not have a bad dream. But this wasn't up for debate, standing he straightens. "Give me an hour." Years, he'd be down there, searching for a girl he's never really met. "What is her name?" He doesn't look at Eames, it would be too hard. "Fuck if I'm letting you go Arthur you bloody idiot, you're worse than Cobb ever was." Eames is spitting venom, Arthur lets it roll off him, ignores it, he knows it infuriates Eames further, but there is nothing to be done for that now.

"Rose." So not Sylvia, she hadn't looked like a Sylvia anyway. "Give me an hour, if I'm not out by then, Eames you come after me." Arthur's voice doesn't even waver, he hands the gun to Eames as the man takes his elbow to offer support. "God dammit darling, don't you dare die on us." Eames doesn't pull his punches, reminds Arthur that Ariadne is depending on him to get them out of this. "I will try not to." Arthur is bustled onto a lounger, Rose is already hooked up, she looks weak and defenseless, curled up on one side, black hair framing her face. There is a bruise high on her cheek that hadn't been on Sylvia's, he had no idea what he was in for. They were too deep in now to quit, he was obligated to try, hell-bent the consequences, Cobb wouldn't have pulled out now, Arthur does not usually have such strident morals, but the connection has already been made. He wouldn't leave Ariadne behind, he couldn't let this Rose stay lost in her own personal purgatory.

They put him under, and he knows when he sees the gun in his hands, there is nowhere to go but further down. He weighs the gun in his hands, thinks of how it had looked in Eames' hands. It is the same gun from the dream before, a comforting gesture he had given himself. It is still warm from the Forger's hands, has flecks of his blood on the muzzle from what must have been a violent end. Eames had been in the dream a few more minutes after that, sitting in the backseat next to his corpse. Arthur wishes Eames was here now, despite his insistence to the contrary, despite the complicated mess they had gotten themselves into.

The truth of the matter is, nothing has changed, Arthur realizing had changed nothing, they had always existed like this. There had always been more meaning between them than Arthur had realized, and the realization changed very little. Arthur has never dated someone, strings of one night stands, vague flirtations, those were the limit of his romantic involvements. His passion was for the thrill of the job, the compilation of all those little details, meshing together into a whole. When he failed it was debilitating, but he never failed, there were set-backs, things he hadn't planned for, like Rose. But failure was never an option, he had never allowed it to be.

It was up to him, Eames had given him the reigns, from their first tryst in a hotel room after Brazil. Was it really a tryst, were those words too romantic a description for drunken desperate fumbling in the dark? Eames had been shattered, and Arthur was adept at putting back together pieces, it had seemed like the only possible scenario for the night. But Arthur was deluding himself if he still thought that after seeing the whole picture now. He could have left Eames to his own devices, the soothing arms of alcohol, a vice he'd seen the Forger make use of often enough to the same end. He had followed Eames' lead, a willing participant, and then fixed, mended, soothed till Eames was emotionally spent as well as physically.

Arthur had made his choice long before he'd known there even was a choice to be made, there was no time now to think it through. Raising the gun he exhales, he doesn't close his eyes, there will be no kiss to sink him into the waves.


	8. Chapter 8

The waves are cold, washing over him, he grasps his fingers beneath the sand, he drowns under the cold, hands are pushing him, holding him down. He struggles against them, his eyes open wide in clear water, the bath-water is fresh, he sucks it in, burns his lungs with it. His eyes sting from the vestiges of soap, he cries out, silenced by water. He claws at her hands, they won't let him up, terror, he struggles, it hurts. His clavicle fractures under the strength of her hands. He sobs for it to stop, sucks in more water, can only see the watery outline of her long black hair, it had always been so soft, he reaches out to grasp it, his bones grind, he pulls, her grip lessons, he comes up gasping.

He is sitting on an endless beach, the sky is overcast, in the far distance of a never-ending ocean there is a storm rolling in. He sucks in breath, his eyes stinging from the salt, his immaculate suit made less-so by the copious amounts of sand clinging to it. Memories of the past are gone, he is alone here. He struggles to his feet, world tipping all sorts of off balance. Stumbling in the sand, he finds equilibrium, and raises his gaze, wiping sand from his cheeks. Decayed housing stretches for miles, the same house, same ruined picket fence, multiplied into infinity, only sometimes deviating enough to change the color.

Arthur takes a deep breath, this isn't his purgatory, but he finds a certain familiarity in the state of Rose's limbo. He starts forward, lost in her dream with his own ghosts at his heals.

Time is an irrelevant concept now, it stretches and wanes, is as immaterial as a painting of a clock. The sun sets and rises all in one moment, the storm always on the horizon, never quite reaching. Each house is the same, Arthur moves through innumerable hallways, steps over the same toys so many times. Sometimes he stops to rest, but he doesn't feel tired, just needs a change in the pace. He doesn't trick himself into feeling hunger, but it has been years he knows, since he last ate.

Albeit knowing is a foreign concept in these empty hallways that trail to more empty hallways, light and shade filtering, creating endless expanses, houses filled with the derbies of childhood, the remnants of memories. Sometimes he can hear laughter echoing in the distance, he runs toward it, exits one house, only to have the sound muffled by approaching thunder. He enters another house and it is gone. The hallways may change, or maybe he's gone in circles through the same one, it's hard to tell, they blur.

He feels like he is dying when he finally finds her. She is young, younger than she looked before, asleep and angelic, but he knows she is no older, he is no older. He cannot remember who she is, but remembers her name, Rose. She welcomes him, and he sits down in front of her, at first their opposing accents bring some confusion. She has faceless servants bring her tea, and they share it, trying to step around the stumbling blocks of their cultural identities. "Arthur, what's that for?" She picks up the gun he has placed to the side, looks at it curiously, like it's a new toy. "I don't know." He smiles faintly, takes it back, his hands practiced, like he's done this a million times, but he doesn't remember ever doing it before. He takes the gun apart, breaks it down to component parts, so many familiar pieces, arranges them on their table.

They take tea here every day at noon, they have since Arthur can remember. The pieces make no sense to him now, she is fascinated, so he does it a few more times to entertain her before they both tire of the game. He discards the pieces and servants take them away, they are brought a game of Chinese Checkers, this amuses Rose far more, even though she can never beat Arthur at games like these. They never rest, or maybe they do, Arthur finds it hard to focus, thinks perhaps they do rest sometimes. Perhaps they curl up on the porch overlooking the storm rolling in on the horizon. Yes they do, and Rose rests her head against his shoulder like a sister, he holds her gently and watches the storm till he sleeps, and then they play a game, or talk.

He has told her every story he has ever learned, and made up ones for her, she is a superb actress, acting out the dramatic parts of each one. He has grown to have such a fondness for her, enraptured in this family they have created for themselves, she wants nothing from him save companionship, he fears he has nothing else to offer.

Years pass, they grow no older, and he never questions why, can hardly comprehend the paradox that is the passing of time. Their perfect world is disrupted by a ragged visitor, coated in the dust of decay that reeks of the outside. His sleeve is threadbare, and Arthur focuses hard on it, as their nameless visitor devours the water they offer like a man who has been lost in a desert for longer than he can remember. A nagging doubt tears at Arthur, Rose is worried as the days pass on and their visitor becomes a fixture. Arthur feels he has forgotten something, there is a pain deep, like something has been ripped away, something is missing.

Their visitor is mute, but is amiable enough, plays games with them. He teaches Rose to play Rummy in his silent way, a game Arthur never managed to master. He hears their visitor speak for the first time after six years, or maybe sixteen years. "Arthur." A rough, accented voice, not like Rose's but similar enough, the sound of his name after so long smacks him in the face, everything looks too bright, the encroaching storm is too loud. "Darling, it's time to wake up." There is so much pain in the stranger's voice, and when Arthur looks up, desperate to know why, it's into Eames' eyes he falls. Eames all along, and he'd known from those worn sleeves. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't drag you from this for the world, but it's not real." No, no, it cannot be so, but Arthur knows it's true. Happiness comes at such cost.

"How will we do this?" Arthur sucks in breath, he doesn't need to, he could stop breathing now, just fade away, nothing is real, so many years, time is irrelevant. "I'll go last, Rose needs to go first." Arthur nods in agreement, wonders how long Eames was searching.

Rose doesn't want to believe it, Eames comes armed with proof that Arthur hadn't had time to collect. It's why he'd thought to leave them out to begin with, it would be senseless to have Eames go first, when Arthur was already loosing so much time in the waking world due to possible infection. Her world here is a compilation of places from her fractured childhood, she is the intellectual heir of a prominent politician, groomed for this role, she is not a little girl, not a princess. The storm that has loomed on the horizon for centuries finally makes it's destination, rain crashes down, wind tears apart the shingles on a thousand sun-bleached rooftops, her world is coming apart.

She goes, still breaking apart, it is not Arthur's job to put the pieces back together. Eames takes a deep breath, offers him a smile, as the world around them washes away. They stand on the beach, waves lapping at their feet. The sensation is an annoyance, as each tidal rush pushes sand into Arthur's shoes. Arthur takes the gun from Eames, it is not the same gun of course, he'd taken that one apart, but the weight feels the same none-the-less. He studies Eames again, the easy posture, the relaxed way the Forger stands before him, as if there were no masks between them. Perhaps there aren't, perhaps there haven't been any there since Brazil. Hundreds of years ago, but those years aren't real.

"We need to be getting on with it love, or Ariadne will be coming in after us. I'm sure she has lovely shadows from her encounter with Cobb's." Eames is looking out at the waves, doesn't see Arthur take aim. Arthur watches Eames' body crumple to the sand, it is only there because he wants it to be. "I love you." He whispers to the rushing waves, before pulling the trigger a second time.


	9. Chapter 9

In which I give Eames a horrible first name and write a whole paragraph of sex!

* * *

They get out of the country on a red-eye flight, Arthur is in and out of consciousness the whole time. He wakes up after a few-dozen false starts, the scent of antiseptic is clear, but he's in a hotel room, not a hospital. There is an IV drip in his arm, and a quick check shows antibiotics and saline solution. He is thirsty and sits up slowly, noting then that his blood stained coat is drapped over his knees. He rummages through the pocket, takes the dice out, breathes out comfort as the weight settles in his hand. He rolls it across the blanket and is comforted when it lands on the same face it always does.

The room is upper-class, giving him cause to believe that Rose's "family" paid out, at the time he was too delirious to make much sense of the proceedings. Getting up is a painful exercise, involving the quick removal of various tubes and lines. It hurts, but the job done on his bullet-wound is first-rate, the messy suture of prior has been replaced with neat monofiliment thread, he is able to stretch with relatively little discomfort. He finds the restroom easily, and also a change of clothing, which he stiffly dons after washing up.

Someone has washed his hair, for which he is grateful, and he styles it as best he can with no product available save tap-water. Investigating the room further finds a locked door to the hotel corridor, and an unlocked door that leads to a room adjacent his own.

Buttoning his sleeves he finds Ariadne on the floor making a model, Eames helping her. They do not notice him at first, talking, teasing one another. Ariadne questions Eames' intent on putting a spiraling staircase in a certain location, she reminds him this is for the waking-world, not the dreamscape. Arthur is reminded again of how young their Architect is, to be working on a model for school. He does not have long to dwell on this, before they notice he is standing in the doorway. "Oi, love, you're not supposed to be up and 'bout, the nurse told us to make sure you rested." Eames is tripping over himself to get up, there is a nervous tension there, a lack of self-assured nature.

Arthur lets Eames hustle him into a chair, relaxes back into it, taking a deep breath, assured that they are all safe, Eames would not be so at ease if they weren't, would not be displaying this nervous side. Ariadne gives him a grin, drops her focus to her model, starts cutting paper to dimension. "I will be sure to follow the orders of the assuredly reputable nurse who makes calls to hotel rooms." Arthur takes the water Eames offers him, but ignores the glare.

Ariadne informs him that they made part with their captors at the airport, with more money than they would probably ever know what to do with. That the nurse was someone she'd met through friends, and had treated him as a favor, but not before Eames had suggested they hit up the mafia to find a doctor on the take.

Of course things would go back to the way they were before, at least Arthur had a stationary and safe location in which to recover. Ariadne left first, she had tests, school to attend to, Extraction was not her true calling, the waking world had too much promise, even if the dreamscape held an allure her creative side could not deny. Arthur waits, day after day for Eames to take a new job, to leave without a goodbye. But the Forger doesn't go, lingers in the room adjacent to Arthur's and leaves messes all over the place. Drags Arthur to a pub a few blocks away every few days. They go window-shopping, invest in new technology, Arthur listens when Eames tells him the phone he wants to purchase is rubbish. They go to lunch with Ariadne and then shopping, plan to meet up for a game of cards in a few weeks.

They fall into the same bed that night, after spending the day carrying bags for their Architect. Eames is a heavy familiar weight on top of him, one he hasn't felt for a year now, it is one that is welcomed. "Miss you Arthur, every time, don't know how you do this to me." Eames whispers between heated kisses a line of conversation from what feels so long ago, and they are prepared to face it now, but Arthur is too busy extracting the Forger from his clothing at first to reply. He doesn't need to, till Eames latches onto his neck, bites down hard, causing Arthur to groan, clutching to the man's tacky plaid sports coat. "Eames, ah, less clothing." Arthur requests, confused at first by the reply.

"Howard." He blinks up at the Forger, struggling to make sense of the new topic of conversation. Finally it falls into place, locks there, his eyes widen, true surprise, probably the first time Eames has seen it. "Howard." He repeats, nods slowly. "I've always gone by the last name though, just thought... you should know." Arthur nods slowly, the surprise fading. He reads between the lines, pushes the tacky coat to the ground, drags the Forger down closer, he licks along the line of the other man's lips. "Eames you're overdressed." He whispers, receiving a rough growl in response.

It's slower than Arthur can remember it ever being, and gentler, but he ends up with more bruises than any of their couplings before had left him with. Eames' shoulders and back are riddled with sharp indentations, where Arthur had grabbed, clutched, scratched slow trails. They'd fallen asleep, awoken, Eames had pounded him into the bed that second time, hard, brutal. Arthur has never cried out, but this time it is hard not to, usually it's not even a possibility. He'd clutched the pillows, bitten into them, felt his world tip upside down. Eames ruined them, put them both back together, drew pictures against Arthur's skin as they came down from it all. In the morning Eames is still there, smiling at him blearily from the opposite pillow, dawn floods through closed blinds and Arthur would not give this up for the world.

They have separate lives, always dancing around each other, Arthur is beginning to dread when it all comes crashing down, as he knows it must. Practicality, there are no happy endings, not even in dreams, something he learned long before he was introduced to the PASIV device. They put off cards with Ariadne, take her to dinner instead, or the theater, so many things to do here, that have nothing to do with dreams or games, too similar to the heist.

Ariadne starts telling them about one of her classmates, a genius in his own right, she seems smitten with him, with gives Eames cause to tease her, and Arthur cause to demand a meeting. There is less jealously in the demand, and more a desire to make sure their team-mate is being done well by. Ariadne is still their Architect, even though there is no job right now, no pressure or rush, save the build up, the itch to be in the thick of things again.

They finally meet Ariadne's friend over cards, and he fits well enough, if not nervously into their fold. Eames refuses to let anyone else deal, and they play poker, the first few times no-stakes. After a few drinks they start playing for something more substantial, Arthur lax enough to let Eames take the kid's book money from him, he'll get him to give it back later. "So Ariadne told me you guys met in the work-place, what kind of business are you in?" Tyler asks, fresh-faced, innocent. He probably comes from old money, his father, grand-father maybe, they might have to worry about Extractors, but Tyler, it was doubtful he even knew much about that world.

Ariadne's ears turn red with embarrassment, she takes a swig of whiskey for courage, Arthur has ceased to be amazed by the girl's propensity to hold her liquor better than a British Football fan. He can tell she wants to tell the truth, isn't sure how, she's not as deeply entrenched in this business of lies and deceit as Arthur or Eames. He decides to make it easy on her. "She drafted conceptual designs for our company." Arthur watches her exhale a thanks into her glass. "We work in the Information Compilation Industry." Arthur surely compiled information, some of it ill-gained. Most of it ill-gained truth be told.

It's a few hands later when Ariadne slips, she's out of the game, as is Arthur, Eames is playing for keeps against Tyler like it's a personal vendetta, and loving every second of it by the grin on his face. "You'd love it there Tyler, the dreamscape, it's beautiful there." She sighs dreamily, grinning, Arthur cannot begrudge her the inability to keep up the illusion, Tyler hangs on her every word. "What are you talking about Ari?" He teases, bluffs Eames, there is a tension in the air suddenly, Eames is beginning to take the game a bit personally now. Arthur fears he may have to step in, silence his team-members before they make fools of themselves. "Oh." It's too late, Ariadne starts talking, giggling about Cobb, looking graven at the reminder of Mal. Arthur feels a little grave at the mention of the dark-haired devil-woman, too many knee-caps shot through, too many failed encounters thanks to that harpy of memories.

"So what were you extracting from Fisher?" Tyler asks, sounding perplexed, and not quite following the whole convoluted trail of dreams Ariadne has been peppering him with. Arthur catches the quick movement out of the corner of his eye. Eames' favorite coat, and now he thinks he knows why. The card slips into his hand as natural as if it had always been there, Eames has just hinged the game, if Arthur cared, he'd call him out on it. As it is, he simply feels a warm sense of pride, that his lover is so very crafty.

He is about to explain the concept of Inception for Ariadne, to save her the tentative moral ground, when Eames reaches forward a bit too quick, knocks the bottle of whiskey over onto the table. It drenches the cards, the money heaped in the center, Ariadne yelps and leaps to her feet before it can wash into her lap. Eames is laughing apologetically, standing, righting things, offering to get a towel. When he moves toward the door he slides on the wet floor, pushes into Ariadne, knocking her off balance. They are a mess of giggles, her skirt soaked through with whiskey. "Shit come on love, lets get cleaned up. Arthur help us up, I think we're shit-faced." Eames' voice is full of mirth, but Arthur is on edge.

Leaving Tyler confused in the living-room, they struggle to fit in the bathroom. Eames voice is lowered to a harsh whisper, his hand snapping up to display the card Arthur saw him slip out earlier. "We're quite fucked." Arthur doesn't understand the Forger's words at first, till he focuses on the card. It is an ace, normal as can be, save the suit is changing on it's own. He's never seen Eames' totem till now, watches the play of suits, feels his heart-rate immediately skyrocket. His dice was compromised, he doesn't even bother grabbing it, watches Ariadne desperately clutch her pawn, he already knows it will be more of the same. Eames had been watching them the whole time, watching each time they'd checked their totems, he'd not had reason to check his own of course, trusting those of his companions' to be safe.

So many layers, Arthur couldn't even pinpoint what might have been true, what was false. They were after information on the Fisher job no doubt though, Tyler the fresh-faced school kid was their Extractor. He turns his attention to Ariadne, afraid to find her devastated, he doesn't expect the look of homicidal intent. "I'm going to kill him." He believes her, grabs her arm before she can go out there and make good her intent. "Oh, not a good idea Ariadne. That leaves us what?" Eames placates her, gently patting her shoulder. "We tell the truth. We failed at the Extraction." Arthur is already opening the door, Tyler is standing near to where they left him. "I think we'll need a cab." Arthur forces a sheepish smile.

Tyler whips out his phone, comes closer, Eames has pushed himself up to sit almost in the sink, lounging lazily, not a care in the world. There is also a certain glint of pride in his eyes, Tyler was a shape-shifter, a manipulator, but he hadn't gotten one over on Eames. Arthur would never live this down, if they managed to live at all. Extractors were not known for their killer intents though, no that was the realm of employers and marks, vendettas were not part of their game usually. They wait for Tyler to hang up before beginning their conversation again. Ariadne is giggling as she tries to rinse her skirt out in the shower, it is drawing Tyler's eyes in a way that makes Arthur want to deck him personally. "We failed so badly." Ariadne says. "We were supposed to get the code to this safe or something, but the safe didn't even exist. The mazes I got to make were mind-blowing though!" Ariadne puts the right inflection of excitement and wistfulness behind it.

"You fail more than you win sometimes." Eames adds his own touch of whimsy, his totem back in the safety of his sleeve, the frayed edge making a world of sense now. "All we got was a load of useless crap about Fisher's daddy complex." Eames grins at Tyler, as if sharing a joke. They know their subterfuge works when the man feigns a headache, leaving them to their own devices.

Arthur awakens in intense pain, he is in a hospital bed, he doesn't bother checking his die, they had taken that safety from him. The stitches are neat, clinical. This might be another dream, another layer, he isn't sure how many it is now, if this is even still a dream and not some fucked up limbo. He doesn't talk to the nurses, feigns sleep, but doesn't sleep again.

He is tense when the door opens in the middle of the night, there is the sound of shuffled feet, the squeak of an IV, he opens his eyes in the dim light. "Hello there darling, how are you feeling?" Eames leans down, brushes a kiss against Arthur's hair. "I thought it was an unspoken rule that Extractors do not touch the totems of other Extractors." Arthur complains, Eames is here, safe, his only port in this storm. "What happened to your leg?" He adds as an aside, noting the bandages and the limp. Eames is wearing not but a medical gown and some rather revealing boxers. "Ended up getting shot, just a graze, but blasted if I get medical treatment outside of an English foreign Consulate anytime soon." Eames brushes his fingers through Arthur's hair, a comforting gesture.

"Is it real?" Arthur needs to know, even though he's starting to think that Eames' presence is enough. The man slides his hand into the hospital gown's sleeve, comes up with the trick card. Arthur holds his breath, studies it a moment, watches Eames' flick it between his fingers. "As real as it can be love." Eames leans down, and Arthur meets him halfway.


	10. Chapter 10

Ariadne works at the lathe behind him, he can hear the slow turns polishing down the wood. He measures out the resin, wearing safety goggles, forgoing the recommended face mask in lieu of careful pouring procedure. Bach plays barely above the hum of Ariadne's lathe. He is humming along to it, mixing in pigment, trying to get the proper red, but still retain the streaks he finds so pleasing.

Eames comes in from the kitchen, eating what appears to be a fudge-sicle, he stays far away from their respective work-tables, vapors and dust of unsavory distinction in their corners. "So how goes the process loves?" Eames slides onto a stool, gives it a spin, Arthur allows himself a moment to study the Forger, watch him stretch out his leg carefully as the doctor had ordered. "Almost ready to let the resin set in the molds." Out of the half dozen die, Arthur would choose one, the rest would be memorized and placed in various safe-places, reality back-ups. He hadn't told the others, he knew Eames would understand the need though.

"I received an e-mail from Cobb earlier this morning." The sentence causes Ariadne to still her lathe, Eames almost drops his popsicle. "He sent pictures of the children, expressed a desire I should show them to you when I next encountered you Ariadne." His words set them at ease, the comforting sound of the lathe begins again. Perhaps he would ask her to make him some candlestick holders or something, she was uniquely skilled at the device. "He also displayed an interest in procuring our services for a potential job in the up-coming months. He thought I would be best suited in tracking you down Eames." Arthur was indeed best suited, which amused him no end. Of course he was best-suited to track Eames down because they were sleeping in the same bed most nights.

"I'll contact Yusuf, no promises though, he wasn't all too happy with the last go-round, apparently he's never had to drive a van in a high-speed chase before." Eames chuckles at some memory, he'd been the one to travel back with Yusuf, unfinished business from before their job.

"I'm game, never a dull moment with you guys." Ariadne's grin is clear in her statement, Arthur does not bother to look up from his careful pouring to witness it for himself. "But no-go if you aren't all better by then Arthur." She warns, the grin is still there though, she knows he'll work regardless of condition, he couldn't turn it off.

He taps the mold on the table, forcing the bubbles in the resin to rise, the pigmentation to settle, he bends down, trying to tell if the resin was poured level to the top. Eames is bent low too, grinning at him from across the room. "I love you" Eames mouths out, and Arthur is forced to smile, tearing his gaze back to his work, his shakes the mold a bit more, watching the pigmentation set. This was real, he could hold onto this.


End file.
